A Quiet Ivaim

The arena fell into tense silence as the fighters squared off.

Nathan stood tall, spear in hand. His broad shoulders were relaxed, but his whole body was ready to strike.

His silver-gray eyes locked onto his opponent without a hint of doubt. He didn't need to speak; his presence alone demanded respect.

Ivaim, usually quick with sharp remarks, kept unusually quiet.

He leaned forward slightly, lips pressed into a thin line.

'If he hears laughter from the crowd while he's fighting—and realizes it's because of me... I might get my throat impaled,' he thought grimly.

His lips twitched despite himself.

'Though with my good luck, the guy next to me will probably get his throat impaled instead.'

On the opposite side, Seren shifted her weight, her axes gleaming under the lights.

Her wild grin promised chaos, but there was calculation in her stance.